The Ice Palace
by Rach L
Summary: A *dark* interpretation of how things could have turned out if Max and the others had not escaped from the Manticore facility. "Only when spring comes, it'll melt. Only then the ice palace will fall."


Title: The Ice Palace  
Author: Rach L.  
Feedback: Yep, please. rach_jiwon@hotmail.com  
Rate: R, I think.  
Spoiler: None that I'm aware of.  
Category: Extreme Angst. Sort of M/L, but probably not what you expect. *Warning: Alternate Universe*  
Summary: A *dark* interpretation of how things could have turned out if Max and the others had not escaped from the Manticore facility. "Only when spring comes, it'll melt. Only then the ice palace will fall."   
Disclaimer: Max, Logan, Zack, etc. don't belong to me. "The Ice Palace" the book is written by Tarjei Vessas. A beautifully sad book, I might add. The lyrics used in the beginning are by a Korean singer group called Exhibition. My translation cannot capture its beauty, but this was the best I could come up with. Ah. *sigh*  
Note: If someone can rescue me from the phase of overloaded fic idea syndrome, I'd be grateful. It's becoming more frightening every second. And I have absolutely no idea which dark corner of my mind this idea crawled out from...  
  
***  
The long dreams shatter with regrets,  
and with a sigh, everything around me is burnt.  
The only thing left is you...   
  
Forget me.  
Bury me with your hands.  
I'm to leave without turning back,  
So bury my memories with your hands.  
But you, you stay right here in this place,  
As if you've forgotten me,  
As if there's no shadow left of me,  
As if every part of me is erased.  
Forget me.  
  
-Lyrics by Exhibition, translated by Rach L.  
***  
  
  
The order is simple: Retrieve the disk and terminate the target by the execution style number one. Meaning a bullet through the forehead.  
  
I usually don't like using weapons, guns especially--why make a mess when a simple snap of a neck will do? But the execution style number one means the target is a political criminal and the Powers That Be want poetic justice. They don't like barging in on the so-called freedom fighters' den as a group and massacre everyone. That would ruin what's left of their public image. Instead, they want us to make sure that we kill them in this specific execution style--want us to warn the world what the consequences of defying the government are.  
  
Politicians. Everyone in the team thinks they're ridiculous, but what can we do? Even Commander Lydecker grovels under them--they pay for the Project.  
  
I don't like doing a covert op. either. Done exactly 67 group operations and 19 single runs so far. Well, this is a single run and this target will make my number 20. Lucky, my age. Maybe it'll be easier this time. I hope so. I'm not really fond of beating the truth out of people. Too...bothersome.  
  
It's snowing. Heavily. My trained instinct thinks that this snow will cover the tracks nicely. Not that it matters anyway. The days of secret missions are over. What we do might not be constitutional, but everyone in their right mind knows it's legit now. Follow, or die. Very clear choices.  
  
I decide to go through the front door. I can slip into the target's apartment without breaking a sweat, but I know from the files I've read that the place is heavily guarded with high-tech equipments. In this case, it's better just to walk right in.   
  
Of course, I know a perfect way to make any man open his door for me.  
  
The apartment building is pretty small and ordinary, too ordinary to think a man who can turn this country upside down would actually live in this kind of place. ...let see. Suit 804. Alright, here I go.  
  
I knock exactly three times.  
  
There is a noise behind the wooden door, and I hear a mumbling voice yelling, "Coming!"  
  
The door opens finally, and reveals a dark blond Caucasian in his mid-twenties. He looks younger than the photo.   
  
"Hi," the man says with a look of curiosity, "What can I do for you?"  
  
I deliver the repeatedly rehearsed line in perfection. "I..I need your help."  
  
The first level is playing the weak and helpless. If the target is a grandpapa-esque type, you can safely stick to playing the helpless damsel type all the way through. If it's a grandpapa-pervert type, then you need to go to the second level--the seductress. Well, this target is certainly not a grandpa but just a healthy young man, I'll soon have to switch to the second level. That's why they didn't send Brin--she's yet to master the ways of a seductress.  
  
He looks at me, intrigued. I know the stages they go through. I've done this to death--the pun absolutely intended. They first rake me with their eyes, imagining just how I'd look without the tight leathers I'm wearing. Then they observe me closely, trying to figure out if I'm their enemy or not. Of course, the third stage is letting me in: the debate between their brain and hormones always ends up with the hormones as the winner.   
  
But this guy does neither. He frowns, and comments, "You're cold."  
  
...which is a valid assumption, since it's freaking snowing outside, and unless you're living in Australia, December is usually thought to be the cold season of the year.   
  
But I nod. Have to play the meek and helpless, remember?   
  
He quickly lets me in and sits me down on a comfy couch in the middle of the living room. He also wraps me around with a quilt blanket right away. "Wait here. I'll get you something warm to drink."  
  
Oookay... This hospitality takes me off-guard. This man doesn't strike me as someone who's falsely nice. But why on earth does he want to be nice to a stranger? Granted, a very sexy stranger (Give me some credit. I know how men react around me. I have eyes.), but he surely doesn't seem to want to jump between my legs any time soon.  
  
But who knows? If this guy likes being gentlemanly with girls, let him be. With Zack outside waiting in the car as a backup, I know this man can't mess with me.   
  
While waiting, I decide to look around a little. No harm in that.  
  
The room is smaller than I thought when I saw its blueprints. And definitely more cozy, mostly decorated with books and...books. Some computer equipments are at the end of the room, but the walls are all covered with the tall shelves stacked with books--definitely expensive commodity at this time. Liberation Fighters, huh? The leaders of the Liberation Movement I've terminated were mostly screwed up SOB's who spent money like water. Can't say the same about the ones at the bottom of the pyramid, though. They fight well, and hard. They really think they'll make a change by fighting.  
  
Can't hurt to dream.  
  
Wait, it can. You end up dead.  
  
My target number 20, even though looking pretty loaded, doesn't have that arrogant aura about him like the every other LM leader did. But he *is* on the top of the ladder, surprisingly for his age. He's the one who's doing all the brainstorming and planning. But he's gone too far this time, having managed to get the 'evidence' of all the corrupt things the gov't has been doing. Not a big news in this place: everyone knows what's going on, albeit too afraid to admit it. But if this guy goes public about this with the other un-Pulsed nations, TPTB won't be happy. They say he needs to be stopped.  
  
Hence, I'm here.  
  
I sit down again, sorta irritated that the quilt blanket around me feels too...comfortable. And the couch, too. They just feel too...good. Well, no biggie. I always feel this way when I set my feet into a 'homely' environment. Kinda because I've never had a home. But Manticore is my home...right? I have my brothers and sisters, and we don't exist without each other. That's home. This...blanket, this warmth...it's not home. The golden colored carpet on the floor, the framed picture of mountains, those are not what makes a home either. And this wooden coffee table with a hand-made cloth on top isn't...  
  
I suddenly notice a mug and a book on the table. Which means he's been reading when I knocked the door. Curious, I pick up the hardcover book. The front picture is colored with blue and white and there's a drawing of what looks like a crystal cave or something. The cover says--"The Ice Palace".   
  
Before I explore the content, though, he appears from the kitchen with a cup in his hand. He smiles, handing it to me. "It's hot chocolate. Have some."  
  
Hot chocolate? I've had them before; they tasted bitter in Styrofoam cups. But this cup I'm holding between my palms right now isn't weak disposable garbage. It's a genuine clay mug cup that warms up my cold hands.   
  
And the chocolate tastes hot and sweet. Very sweet.  
  
"Feel better?" He sits cross from me on a chair, grinning slightly.  
  
I nod again. Not pretending this time, because I do feel better. A little.  
  
He glances at the table and sees I've been meddling with his book. He picks it up carefully, as if he's dealing with a precious china or something. It's just a book, for god's sake, but it seems to be important to him.  
  
I blurt out, curious, "What's it about?"  
  
"This?" He arches his eyebrow, surprised that I'd be interested in a mere book. Well, can't blame him. I'm surprised too. "This is a story about two girls and the ice palace."  
  
Gathered *that* much from the cover already, but I decide to humor him. "The ice palace?"  
  
He relaxes into a 'story time' posture, sitting deeper into the chair and fingering the book's cover again and again. "The story is set in Norway. One girl accidentally finds the cave frozen with ice in one very long and cold winter. She explores it, wanting to see more and more as she goes deeper into the cave. She comes to an end, unable to walk anymore. The other girl, her friend, goes to look for her. When her friend finds her, though, the girl is already dead, frozen in the deepest part of the cave."  
  
Geez, talk about a bummer. "And you *like* this story?"  
  
He puts down the book. "It's fitting. Kinda like this...country right now."  
  
"Which part? The freezing to death part?"  
  
"No," he grins, "Although that assessment seems pretty accurate too." He stands up and walks over to the window, lifting the curtain ever so slightly. "I guess the people from different regions of the world have different ideas on how the world is going to end. Spring, the savior, sometimes doesn't come in Northern European folktales and myths. The nature is a powerful force, I guess. Greek and Near East myths had floods, and the people in Norway had snow as the method of punishment from God--apocalypse."  
  
I can't possibly see where this talk about folktales and the apocalypse is leading, but it's kinda hard not to listen to him. Myths and fairy tales. Never believed in them, of course, but I always liked them. Not that I had many chances to read that sort of books, but I think they're cute, a way to escape reality. Always a good idea.  
  
"This society," he continues as he watches the snowflakes falling from the dark sky, "is like the ice palace. From outside, it's beautiful in its fragility. But once you walk into this ice palace, it'll kill you. If you stop walking because it feels good to stop and rest, because you want to give up, you freeze to death. Only when spring comes, it'll melt. Only then the ice palace will fall."   
  
He returns to his chair. "I've been waiting for spring for a long time, but it seems like an endless winter right now." He's speaking to himself more than to me.  
  
Okay, okay, am I getting soft? I'm exchanging--well, not exchanging, because I haven't said a word so far--philosophical points of views about a freakin' book and Norway mythology with a man whose puddle of blood I'm going to stand on in a few minutes.  
  
He shakes his head lightly, as if chiding himself. "Sorry about the rant. I don't know where it came from."  
  
"'s okay," I say, sipping the hot chocolate again. This stuff is good.  
  
He observes me for a full five seconds, then asks, "Have I met you before?"   
  
It'd have been such a lame pick-up line if the blue eyes behind his glasses were not glittering with genuine curiosity. And I have this disturbingly nagging feeling that I should know him, know him well. ...of course I know him well. I've memorized his files--from the name of his childhood dog to his latest grocery purchase using credit cards. But I can't possibly be used to the way his lips curl up at the corners when he grins, or the way he tilts his head so slightly, or the way his Caribbean blue eyes penetrate mine.  
  
I can't know those things from surveillance tapes or the files.  
  
"Don't think so," I say. This familiarity is creeping me out. His eyes.. I keep thinking I know his eyes. It unnerves me. Better just get this over with. "Look, I need your help."  
  
He leans back to the chair, his head tilted, one hand supporting his chin. "Ah," he says.  
  
"Ah what?" I try not to look too suspicious.  
  
"You're one of them." It's not a question.  
  
Smart boy. So he figured it out himself. Must admit he's pretty quick. Quicker than the most. Not a single man I've dealt with realized what hit them until the last moment.  
  
But just to make sure if he really knows what he's talking about... "One of what?"   
  
There's a lopsided grin on his face that I don't particularly like. "I don't have the disk," he says.  
  
"What disk?" Yeah, yeah, yeah. I kinda like playing dumb, so what?  
  
"One of you--I don't know, it could've been you--killed my friend, Herrero, last week. Already knew I'd be the next."  
  
Then why didn't you get the hell out, you idiot? I'm wishing I don't have to kill this man. I know, sentimentality equals bad. But I just don't feel like it now. Not that I believe in humane goodness, but the hot chocolate was a nice gesture. Pretty much the nicest thing any person has done to me so far.  
  
I really wish he'd run and gotten the hell away from here.   
  
He reads my questioning eyes. "Because you thought I was the one with the disk and concentrated on watching me, you guys didn't pay much attention to the list of airplane passengers who departed this country..." he watches the clock on the wall, "five hours ago."  
  
Shit.  
  
This bastard knew it all along.  
  
"Very brave of you, playing the bait." Idiot.  
  
"You won't be able to catch them now. Not ever. It's over. Everything will be exposed. The world will know everything."  
  
I sneer. "The world doesn't really care."   
  
"They will *have* to care with the amount of evidence I've got." He gives me a smile that could only have sprung from true pride and confidence.  
  
Not my business anyway. I only follow orders. If this country is screwed, there'll always be another big powerful bastards who want to hire Manticore swipers.  
  
I pull out my gun and points at his head. "You do realize that by admitting you don't have the disk, you just signed your death certificate, Mr. Cale." No need to hide my identity now, is there?  
  
"Logan," he quickly interrupts. "It's Logan."  
  
He can't possibly think that I don't know his first name. But he looks at me expectantly, as if... "You want me to tell you *my* name?"  
  
He nods. "Uh, don't worry. The place isn't bugged or anything. Thought we should introduce ourselves."  
  
Then what? He wants to be on the first-name basis with his killer? ...Well, what have I got to lose? No one except the Manticore people know that I even exist. "Is that your last wish?"  
  
"Well, the last wish would probably be 'let me go', but since that wouldn't work, yeah, that's my last wish." He doesn't really seem to care that I've got a gun on him of which I could always accidentally or intentionally pull the trigger.  
  
This man. This man is strange. Just too damn strange for my taste. "Maxine."  
  
"Maxine," he repeats, as if he's testing the name. "Maxine. That's a nice name."  
  
I really, really have to roll my eyes at its lameness. "Yeah, thanks a bunch." I stand up and wave the gun at the floor. "You can save me some trouble and kneel. So I can shoot you dead."  
  
He doesn't seem to like the idea--not the fact I'm going to shoot him, but the fact I want him to kneel. Is this guy a fruitcake? "I really prefer not to, but I guess I can't win against the genetically enhanced human terminators."  
  
He knows about our team too. Oh, goodie. "I'd say no. So--kneel. I kinda don't wanna make you," I say, irritated.  
  
He kneels down then, right beside the coffee table. Too bad I won't get to finish the hot choco...  
  
I walk right in front of him and look at his face. There's no trace of fear in his face. He doesn't beg. Everybody has so far. Even the bravest ones begged for their lives when the gun's pointed at their heads. But he doesn't. "You don't seem very afraid."  
  
He shrugs. "Knew it was coming. If someone has to die to make this happen, guess it better be me."  
  
"Why?" I just have to ask.   
  
"Someone has to. There isn't a choice. Just like you don't have any choice in shooting me."  
  
He's looking at me with a look of what I recognize as...compassion. Compassion? Not pity?  
  
No, it's not pity. He really does care--which just confirms the fact he's insane. I'm about to kill him in cold blood, but he cares.  
  
...it hurts me, though. His little expressions, his knowing eyes, his familiar blue eyes... Seeing them just hurts too much. Knowing that this guy is seriously whacked to care about even me doesn't help ease this...pain.  
  
"Take off your glasses." For some unexplainable reason, I don't want to see his eyes getting all mutilated by the pieces of broken glasses when I shoot him. Who cares? He'd be dead. But I still don't want to see that.   
  
He wants to ask why, I guess, but he doesn't ask. He only takes them off and hands them to me carefully. He stares while I put the glasses down on the table.   
  
"I'm sorry," he says, looking as if he means it.  
  
I almost ask him 'For what?', but I don't. I think I already know the answer.  
  
He's sorry *for* me.  
  
I put the head of the gun at his forehead. He doesn't blink. He looks straight at my eyes.  
  
And I pull the trigger.   
  
I almost drop the gun, though, startled by the sound. Much louder than I remember.  
  
I'm standing on the puddle of his blood, I realize. The thick, jelly like crimson stuff oozes from his fractured skull to the floor and dirties the nice carpet. His soulless blue eyes are not closed, though. They stare at me. Even with the red streaks that're now dyeing his face, his eyes are staring.  
  
I'd like to think they contain forgiveness, but I know I'm reaching.  
  
...it's the time to follow the procedure. I look around, making sure I'm not leaving any evidence that'd directly point to the gov't. Well, I think two mug cups might cause some suspicions. Don't think the sector police would look into this that deeply, but oh well. Better do it now.  
  
I take the mug into his cute little kitchen and clean it, and store it on the nicely organized shelf.   
  
When I come out, the living room carpet is completely red.  
  
And he's still dead.  
  
Kinda stupid, really. To think I had this strange notion that if I wash the cup, he might come back alive... Think this guy's rubbing off me even when he's dead.  
  
I pass his body to get to the door. I can't resist looking at his eyes again, though. His eyes. They still stare at me. The empty eyes, they stare. I look away.  
  
When I pass the table, for some weird reason, I have to grab the book and his glasses. I don't know why. I just want to.  
  
It's still snowing outside. The wind is crazily strong and it almost blows me over. But I managed to get to the car where Zack is waiting.  
  
He sharply whirls around to face me when I open the door.   
  
"Max." That word translates as 'How did it go?'  
  
"Accomplished."  
  
He gives me a satisfied look. "Lydecker will be pleased. No trouble?"  
  
Not really want to tell him about the fact the government we work for is screwed now. "None whatsoever. Just drive."  
  
He seems to notice my strange mood, but doesn't really comment on that. Instead, he asks, "What're those?"   
  
Ah, these. A book and glasses. I wear the glasses and turn to him. "Souvenirs."  
  
He looks at me disapprovingly, but doesn't grill me for it. "Make sure Lydecker doesn't see them."  
  
I shrug off. If Lydecker sees these, of course, I'll have to be punished for being unprofessional. But who cares really? I like the glasses.  
  
"Snowing," Zack says matter-of-factly as he drives away. "It'll cover the tracks."  
  
"Yeah." I look outside. The car window is covered with thick frost and through the glasses, I can only see the outlines of things. He must've had bad eyes.  
  
Wonder who'll find his body. His friends? Family?  
  
The frozen blue eyes...they still stare at me without anger or sadness. They'll be forever open.  
  
Only the eyes.  
  
"The ice palace's gonna fall."  
  
"What?" Zack asks, not understanding.  
  
The snow falls down softly like the feathers from a white pillow... It's slowly covering the world now. Wonder that's the way the Northern Europeans saw their apocalypse long ago?  
  
But the ice palace's gonna fall soon, thanks to the man I've killed five minutes ago. And spring will come. He was the spring, the savior, I guess.  
  
'If you stop walking because it feels good to stop and rest, because you want to give up, you freeze to death. Only when spring comes, it'll melt. Only then the ice palace will fall.'   
  
But I've stopped walking. Just like the girl who's frozen to death.   
  
I realize what the tight feeling in my stomach means. The spring will not come for me.  
  
It died when Logan Cale died.  
  
I just know.  
  
There'll be only endless winter.  
  
  
END  
***  
  
Feedback? ;)  



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